


car-crash hearts

by dreadedlaramie



Series: drink down that gin and kerosene [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Destiel, M/M, dean makin bad but hot decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-09
Updated: 2017-04-09
Packaged: 2018-10-16 15:27:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10574139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: The whiskey doesn’t burn in the back of his throat like the bottom-shelf shit Dean’s gotten used to; it goes down smooth and subtle and spreads sweet and slow until he’s loose and warm and easy.Dean doesn’t trust Ketch, whiskey or no. When he says that he and Dean are the same, Dean pulls back from the uncomfortable implication. But, he’s not wrong: Dean is a killer, always has been.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Set during 12x14 "The Raid"

The whiskey doesn’t burn in the back of his throat like the bottom-shelf shit Dean’s gotten used to; it goes down smooth and subtle and spreads sweet and slow until he’s loose and warm and easy.

Dean doesn’t trust Ketch, whiskey or no. When he says that he and Dean are the same, Dean pulls back from the uncomfortable implication. But, he’s not wrong: Dean  _ is _ a killer, always has been.

The alcohol in Dean’s system makes it impossible to hide his interest when Ketch mentions vampires, not that he would even want to. Vamps are Dean’s favorite kill, messy and hands-on in a way that few others are. And anyway, he’d take anything at this point, it’s been that long. He needs this.

The hotel is empty when they get there, though, because of course it is, because of course things can’t just be easy for once. Empty save for the lone girl that Ketch drags out by her hair, that is. She isn’t putting up much of a fight, and Dean almost feels sorry for her. Almost.

She still doesn’t put up a fight when Ketch starts hitting her, doesn’t even bare her fangs— she stands her ground, insists she doesn’t know anything.

When Dean intervenes and tells her that he’ll make her death quick if she talks, the horrifying implication of that obvious, she does. (And he keeps his promise, no injection of dead man’s blood to make her suffer, no dawdling, just the quick wet slice of a machete.)

Behind Dean, Ketch’s breath is rapid, but no longer just from his recent exertion. He’s seen killers and he’s seen  _ killers _ , but he’s never seen anything like Dean.

When they get back to the British Men of Letters’ HQ, the fighting is already done (because, again,  _ of course _ ), and Dean is all sharp edge and unmet need. He resigns himself to being unsatisfied and pissy until the next successful hunt, turns to leave— a hand on his wrist stops him. “Wait.”

Dean sees his own frustration mirrored in Ketch’s expression, the same wanting ache that registers a bit lower in his gut than is probably healthy.

Ketch doesn’t say anything else, just walks off toward the interior of the facility, and Dean doesn’t have to be told to follow him.

Ketch’s quarters are small but seem relatively private, tucked off in one corner. Dean pauses at the door, watches Ketch remove his jacket, back to him.

“Come in. If you want to,” Ketch says finally, not turning around. It’s an invitation, a genuine offer, something Dean can accept or decline as he chooses (Dean isn’t sure what else he was expecting).

Dean steps inside and pulls the door shut behind him, stands awkwardly for a moment.

“So,” he says, no longer quite sure that he’s read the situation correctly at all, uncertain in a way that suits him all wrong.

“So,” Ketch repeats, turning around.

Dean has been looked at in a lot of hungry ways, a lot of dangerous ways, a lot of predatory ways— but never quite like this. Ketch is starving, is deadly, is greedy and feral. Dean finds himself wanting everything that look offers.

Ketch closes the distance between them easily and backs Dean against the door. He shoves a knee between Dean’s thigh, presses impossibly close.

He leans in and kisses Dean, hard, too hard, and Dean can feel his lip split under Ketch’s teeth, tastes his own blood. It’s agonizing in the most perfect way, and Dean wants more.

Dean bites back, because he wants to know what Ketch will do, because for all that he wants this he isn’t some prey to be caught and had so easily.

Ketch jerks Dean’s head back sharply, quickly, his hand a hard fist in Dean’s hair. Dean tests his grip, finds no give to it. Good.

Ketch scrapes his teeth hard along Dean’s jaw line, mumbles something inaudibly dirty against his pulse point. He bites then, with intent, hoping to leave marks and draw blood. The wounds will be impossible to hide, and that thrills Dean in a way it shouldn’t.

Dean lets out a low sound that he would know was embarrassing even without the low chuckle against his throat, but it’s been a  _ while _ and,  _ fuck _ , Cas would  _ never _ . (Dean doesn’t know how to ask.)

Dean snakes his hands under the back of Ketch’s shirt, claws his way back down in eight angry lines. Repeat.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Ketch exhales against a fresh wound on Dean’s neck. It stings.

He pulls away all at once, and it’s an effort on Dean’s part not to whimper at the sudden absence. A desperate noise slips out anyway.

Ketch smirks, strips off his shirt and steps out of his shoes, the whole time staring at Dean in a way that makes him uncomfortable and excited.

The smarter voice in Dean’s head (it sounds a lot like Sam, sounds a lot like Cas) reminds him that he doesn’t trust Ketch enough for this (not enough for _anything_ , really, but especially this), that he should turn and leave while he has the chance, that it’s not too late for him to get out of there.

But it  _ is _ too late, isn’t it? Maybe it’s always been too late, this entire time, ever since Ketch showed up at the bunker— hell, maybe ever since they first met.

And besides, Dean wants this,  _ needs  _ this— wants it like he wants to hunt, needs it like he needs to kill. If this is a mistake, it’s one he wants to make.

Dean realises he’s been standing and staring for a moment too long when Ketch quirks an eyebrow at him, hand on his belt. Dean scrambles out of his clothes, quick and clumsy, nearly falling once or twice.

“Come here,” Ketch says, and it’s not so much an invitation, something dark in his voice. His tone makes Dean want even more than this, want rope and knives and Ketch’s belt hitting hard across his ass, want a million dangerous things he doesn’t know how to ask for.

Dean obeys, wrecked-looking already, dark wide eyes and a swollen split lip, angry black-purple bruises trailing down his neck.

“God. Look at you,” Ketch says admiringly, running his thumb across Dean’s bloody lip.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with stuff like this, with being looked at like he’s some incredible thing, never has known how to deal with it. It’s too much like how Cas looks at him and it’s uncomfortably out of place here.

So he steps back into his comfort zone, goes to his knees. Sex is simple, easy, understandable ( _ this _ isn’t any of that, actually, but this was never about  _ just  _ sex).

Ketch looks down at him, the same inappropriately admiring expression as before, though now tainted with want, and Dean can’t deal with that, focuses instead on undoing Ketch’s pants and dropping them to the floor.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, because— and he doesn’t exaggerate about this sort of thing for free— Ketch’s cock is  _ magnificent _ , a line of barbells up the shaft, and long enough and wide enough that Dean knows it might be a bit of a challenge to take it all in.

He kisses each piercing wet and hot and open-mouthed as he works his way up to the head, toying at them with his tongue. Ketch’s breath is shaky already, just from that, and when Dean takes his cock into his mouth, Ketch grabs Dean’s hair hard. It’s clearly been a while for him, too.

Dean bobs a few times, gradually pushing farther and farther until he’s most of the way down. He pushes farther still, works his throat around the head, and Ketch moans, stutters his hips forward.

Dean expected a shift in dynamic from the beginning, is almost surprised it took so long, so when Ketch holds Dean’s head still and begins fucking his throat in earnest, Dean just takes it, hollows his cheeks and relaxes his throat.

His lip splits a little further, stretched by Ketch’s cock and catching each piercing, and it bleeds sluggishly, mixes the taste of blood with the taste of Ketch. Dean thinks about how he must look right now, spit and blood and precome slicking his lips, eyes heavy-lidded and blown wide, wrecked and used, and he moans.

Ketch is close, arrhythmic and panting, slamming almost impossibly hard into Dean’s open mouth.

“Dean, I—” over the nonsense babbling, and then Ketch is coming hot down Dean’s throat. He pulls out and Dean can taste him on his tongue, salty and bitter. A last spurt of come hits Dean across the face, catches in his eyelashes.

Dean wipes his face off and stands back up. Ketch is breathing heavily, still in the afterglow.

“So I’ll just—” Dean starts, voice rough and hoarse.

“Bed,” Ketch says.

“What?” Dean had really been expecting that to be it, an almost entirely one-sided encounter, just Ketch getting what he wanted and sending Dean away.

Ketch slaps him backhanded. Dean has been hard almost since he walked in the room, anticipation and pent-up misplaced bloodlust, but the slap almost sends him over the edge. He almost asks for another.

“Bed,” Ketch repeats. “On your back. Don’t make me tell you again.”

Dean hurries over to the bed in the corner of the room and lies down, his cock  _ aching _ in anticipation. As much as he’d like to be slapped again, he’d rather not get too much on Ketch’s bad side.

Ketch walks over, everything about the way he holds himself screaming  _ predator _ , and Dean objectively knows that he should be scared, that this was the bad idea to end bad ideas, but instead of shrinking under his gaze, he stretches lazily, puts himself on display.

“The things I want to do to you, Dean Winchester…” Ketch says quietly as he settles on the end of the bed. Dean’s heart rate picks up, barely to do with fear. “The things I’ve wanted to do…”

“Like what?” Dean asks, weakly, nowhere near as confident as he was hoping for, throat still raw from earlier and his voice faint from lust. His mind is racing with thoughts of every wrong thing he’s ever wanted, thoughts of every wrong thing he bets Ketch would do if he asked.

Ketch doesn’t respond, instead just reaches under the bed and pulls out a bottle of lube. He uncaps it and coats his fingers with it.

He presses two fingers inside Dean, and the stretch  _ burns _ , but god Dean wouldn't want it another way, the pain and pleasure mixing in his gut like some unholy cocktail.

Ketch is good with his hands, finds exactly where to press to make Dean moan and buck back, twists and scissors his fingers just right.

“You know, I had guessed you’d be easy,” he says casually, pushing a third finger inside. “Didn’t expect you to be quite  _ this _ easy. Look at you, writhing like a little slut.”

“Fuck yo— _ ohhh _ ,” Dean attempts, but Ketch gets him  _ just _ right again. There are better uses of his time than defending his honor, anyway.

Dean pushes back on Ketch’s working fingers again and again, and it’s amazing, sure, but it’s nowhere near  _ enough _ . He looks and Ketch is already half-hard again, just from watching Dean fall apart. So Dean makes it a proper show, verging theatric with the noises he’s making now.

Dean doesn’t beg unless he really wants to, and fuck does he want to right now, wants to beg for Ketch’s cock inside him, for  _ more more more _ .

Ketch pulls his fingers out suddenly, and Dean barely registers what that means before Ketch pushes inside him to the hilt, not bothering to be slow about it. He doesn’t move until Dean starts squirming, needy.

His rhythm is ruthless, fast and unrelenting and  _ amazing _ , just what Dean wants and needs. Dean’s hands grasp everywhere as Ketch fucks him, blunt nails digging in anywhere he can reach and dragging. He can feel the bruises forming already under Ketch’s fingers where he grips Dean’s hips, and he imagines them blossoming bright and ugly. He’ll press his fingers hard into them in the shower tomorrow, get off on this all over again.

Dean reaches a hand down to jerk himself off, but Ketch growls out a no. Dean whines, but does as he’s told, puts his hand back up over his head to brace himself. Ketch adjusts his grip on Dean’s hips, repositions them slightly— the angle is just right now and Dean sees stars every time Ketch slams in.

Dean becomes entirely  _ please please please please _ .

Ketch puts one hand around Dean’s throat and squeezes hard. The edges of Dean’s vision start to fade black and he arches up into Ketch’s hand for more pressure, can feel his windpipe shift and click with it.  _ fuck  _ he is so close. He wonders if Ketch would stop if he passed out, or if he’d just keep squeezing until it killed him. He has no idea.

That shouldn’t be the thought that puts him over the edge, but it is, and he comes hard. Ketch lets go of his throat and the rush of air makes everything so much better. Dean is light and loose and fucked out.

He tenses around Ketch and a few pumps later he can feel the warm wet of Ketch’s come inside him.

Ketch pulls out gently and lies down next to Dean.

“Well, that was—” he starts.

“A bad idea,” Dean finishes.

“I know. Dean…”

Dean rolls off the bed, already feeling sore. He doesn’t expect any tenderness from Ketch, but he’d rather not risk it.

He dresses quickly and leaves without looking back. It was a bad idea, sure, but… he feels so much better now, much less restless and far more relaxed. Maybe even better than he does after a good hunt.

He’d rather not think about that.

**Author's Note:**

> all i want for all future birthdays is more fic of these two thank you


End file.
